


Wormholed

by HeartOfAspen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Stargate, Ten Years Later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-05-14 03:11:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14761487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeartOfAspen/pseuds/HeartOfAspen
Summary: Is ten years after the end of the Second Wizarding War too soon to make a television special about the adventures of the Golden Trio? A better question... is ANY length of time good to make such a thing? Probably not, and here's why.





	Wormholed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LightofEvolution](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LightofEvolution/gifts).



> Please note that this was not originally my plunny... it was meant as an adoptable prompt for the 20 Years Later fest in Dramione Fanfiction Forum (18+) on Facebook, courtesy of the amazing and talented LightofEvolution. However, I had already written something for the fest, but liked the plunny and decided to write it anyway. Greedy, much?
> 
> If you’re a fan of Stargate SG-1, you may recognize some similarities to the 100th Episode (WORMHOLE X-TREME), which this is loosely based off of. Enjoy!

“This is bad,” Hermione fretted for the fourth time in as many minutes. “This is  _ really, really bad. _ ”

“Heard you the first couple times, ‘Mione,” Ron grumbled, his eyes rooted to the television set.

But Hermione did not even process that her friend had spoken, because her horror-struck eyes were also occupied thus.

“I still can’t believe someone made a television show about you three,” Ginny snickered. She had said this at least once for every time Hermione had bemoaned how tasteless the concept was.

On the screen, the actor playing Harry appeared, hands balled into fists and pressed to his hips dramatically, his chest puffed out – as if he were some kind of superhero posing for a glamour shot. The man was black-haired, green-eyed and bespeckled, with a lightning-bolt scar on his forehead, but that was where the likenesses ended. Unlike Harry, this man was muscled and had teeth as white as Gilderoy Lockheart’s. He winked at the camera and flashed a winning smile.

A voiceover for the program announced in a gravelly voice, “Harry Potter: Boy Who Lived, Master of Death… the  _ Chosen One _ .”

Ginny burst into laughter. From the couch, Harry groaned and buried his face in his hands.

“Shut it, Gin, it’s not funny,” Ron growled.

With tears of laughter leaking from the corners of her eyes, Ginny contradicted, “You have never been more wrong… this is hilarious.”

“Oh,  _ no _ !” Hermione moaned, emulating Harry and covering her face with her hands. Unable to entirely look away, her eyes peeked out through her fingers, as if she were witnessing a wreck. In a way, she was.

Ron’s character strolled out onto the screen next, from – was that  _ mist _ ? Fog? It was hard to tell. One thing was for certain however, the actor playing him looked even less like Ron than Harry’s had. For one thing, the man was clearly not a natural redhead and someone had done a very patchy job attempting to make him look ginger. Any of Ron’s other personal details, the program had not bothered to try copying at all. This actor’s eyes were brown; Ron’s were blue. The impostor-Ron was somewhat short and broad, whereas actual-Ron had always been tall and gangling, even long after most grew out of that phase. Now twenty-eight, he still looked vaguely like he was waiting to grow into his body the rest of the way.

The cheesy narrator introduced, “His best friend, Ron Weasley…”

“That’s the best they could come up with?” Ron demanded, irate.

On-screen, the impostor-Ron tripped over something (possibly nothing?) and went sprawling, landing somewhere near impostor-Harry’s feet. Impostor-Harry bent down and offered a hand of assistance, which impostor-Ron took. An overdramatic, sheepish grin spread across his face as he did so.

Ginny had now fallen from the couch and was clutching her side as she hooted with laughter.

“Oh,  _ no _ !” Hermione exclaimed. She was physically vibrating with anxiety, chewing on her fingernails and unconsciously discarding the ragged remains on Harry’s living room carpet.

When the television program had been announced as a way to honor the tenth anniversary of the end of the Second Wizarding War, Harry had been very vocal that the show not move forward (he had never got used to the spotlight). He had, however, been roundly ignored by the media - probably for the first time in his life. Filming continued, despite his wishes.

The enormous discomfort of having to watch television versions of their teenaged selves being portrayed by questionable actors (for surely, not knowing would have been worse), had been stressing Hermione for a few weeks now. It started when advertisements for the premier had begun showing up in places like the  _ Daily Prophet _ and on  _ The Conjurer’s Connection _ , a magically run television station that had been founded about five years ago as an alternative way of keeping wizarding Britain informed. The station ran somewhat intermittently, depending on how much news there was, but every other evening also featured a late-night entertainment hour called  _ Night Owl. _ Being rather new at producing anything however, the shows were usually hilariously bad… this tenth-anniversary special included.

Her mortification rising, Hermione’s heart pounded as the deep voice of the narrator finally announced, “…And the brightest witch of her age, Hermione Granger.”

“OH,  _ NO _ !”

Impostor-Hermione had soft-looking beach waves of honey-chestnut hair, and large, doe-like eyes. She was naturally curvaceous with flawless skin, and Hermione noticed that the actress’s designer jeans were nearly skin-tight.

Tucking her wand behind her ear in a businesslike manner (actual-Hermione’s eyelid twitched in horror), the impostor informed her on-screen companions, “I’ve been researching the downfall of You-Know-Who for months now, so I feel confident we’ve got this, boys.”

Still slumped on the floor from her excessive mirth, Ginny gasped out, “ _ Researching… _ for…  _ months _ … now!”

“Ginny, do I have to call Blaise and have him come pick you up?” Ron threatened.

“N-no,” she stammered, her eyes leaking unconvincingly.

“You should be glad he isn’t here to witness this, or we would never hear the end of it,” Harry said darkly to Ron. “I’m  _ relieved _ Cho is working the late shift at St. Mungo’s tonight… she’s missing the worst of it.”

“They’ll probably have re-runs,” floated in an airy voice as it emerged from the kitchen. In wafted Luna, carrying a tray of fresh cinnamon rolls. She set the tray on the coffee table and sat beside Ron on the couch, kissing his cheek.

“I wish you weren’t here to see this travesty either,” Ron told his wife quietly as he reached for one of the delicious-smelling sticky buns. He ripped a piece off and shoved it into his mouth. On the screen, the trio were now venturing into the bowels of what looked like it might be the Room of Requirement. “It’s embarrassing.”

“The person on that screen is not you, Ron,” Luna reminded him serenely. “You are not responsible for anything that person says or does.”

“I s’pose,” he muttered, still looking mostly pained as his gaze retrained back onto the screen. Hermione shot him a sympathetic look, in case he wanted someone to silently commiserate with.

“You have icing on your cheek,” Luna told him, delicately wiping the frosting away.

Hermione swiftly looked back to the television. Ron and Luna had been married for over five years now, but seeing them interacting in intimate ways was still odd to her. For whatever reason, it continued to be even more surprising than two years ago when Harry announced that he and Cho Chang had reconnected and were now dating again. Meanwhile, Ginny had hooked up with Blaise Zabini at a pub one night, eight years ago now, and had never looked at another man since. The two were engaged to be married in the coming autumn.

On the screen, the drama began to unfold as the Golden Trio dithered over how to destroy Ravenclaw’s diadem (or something that looked vaguely like it, in any case). A moment later, a handsome, blond-haired and gray-eyed defector stepped onto the screen, along with a singular goon that somewhat resembled a silverback gorilla.

Ron barked out a laugh, “Is that meant to be Malfoy and Goyle?”

“Hush, I want to know what happens!” Ginny shushed.

Her brother whinged in response, “ _ I _ wasn’t the one cackling like a hyena for several minutes…!”

“ _ Shh _ !”

In a series of events that were shockingly similar to the real course of history, the Room of Requirement erupted into Fiendfyre. The death of Crabbe had been glossed over by omitting him entirely, and all five actors escaped the room. Hermione was disturbed to find that her impostor’s shirt had somehow become singed by the fire badly enough that it was now scandalously low-cut, her navel on display.

The moment Ginny noticed, she exploded with laughter once more, gasping, “Oh. My.  _ Merlin _ .”

Ron, it seemed, could not contain himself, either, “Oi! I don’t remember you having such a luscious rack, ‘Mione!”

Just as he was saying so, the Floo roared to life. The new arrival paused, his gray eyes locking onto Ron and narrowing in response to his audacity. He smoothly drawled, “I do… and she still has.”

“Hey, Malfoy,” Harry greeted lazily, barely even looking up, “did you happen to see Cho on your way out?”

“She said she was nearly done and would be along within the hour.” Draco rolled up the sleeves of his Healer’s robes and gestured for Hermione to make room for him on the couch beside her. She scooted over and he sank onto the cushion, one arm curling possessively around her shoulders. “Now, Weasley, what was it you were saying about my wife’s glorious rack?”

Both actual-Ron and impostor-Ron swallowed heavily as they were simultaneously confronted by actual-Draco and impostor-Draco, respectively. 

“Er, nothing,” Ron dismissed. He gestured to the television set, “Just pointing out that the media decided to partially disrobe its version of Hermione, that’s all.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed even further as they flickered to the screen, where he caught an eyeful of the impostor’s bared stomach and largely exposed breasts. With a growl, his hand tightened where it rested on Hermione’s shoulder, “We’ll be suing the director of this slop, of course.”

“If you want to,” she humored, snuggling into him. He smelled like hospital, and a bit like singed fabric - what had happened to him at work today to cause that? Mainly though, he smelled like  _ him _ .

She inhaled deeply and buried her face into his robes. The dreadful television show that had somehow managed to make a wormhole in her brain, creating an alternate plane of reality where everything was skewed for the purpose of trite entertainment - was momentarily forgotten.

As her grip on reality began to slowly knit itself back together, Hermione glanced at her friends, all assembled in Harry’s living room. They seemed happy, despite the horrors of war a decade ago. Her eyes flickered to Ron, who was now feeding bits of cinnamon roll to Luna, then to Ginny, who was continuing to laugh uproariously over the television show. For a moment, her gaze flickered upward to Draco, whose eyebrows were furrowed in displeasure, his lip curling as he grew more and more enraged over the sexual objectification of his imposter-wife. 

Finally, her eyes came to rest on Harry, and she had to smile serenely as she recalled that his scar had not pained him for over ten years now.

All was well.


End file.
